


flowers are alive and so am i

by lonelyghosts



Series: you, yourself, your own [5]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Culture Shock, Duscur (Fire Emblem), M/M, Nonbinary Dedue Molinaro, Pre-Slash, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Trans Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, Trans Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelyghosts/pseuds/lonelyghosts
Summary: In Duscur, a body is a vessel.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro
Series: you, yourself, your own [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015026
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	flowers are alive and so am i

**Author's Note:**

> here i wanted to explore 1. gender in duscur, which is based entirely off my own personal hcs (and some wish fulfillment ngl) 2. the effects of going from an environment where gender is something entirely malleable and changeable into one where it's as rigid as it is in faerghus, ESPECIALLY when the people you then live with are dimitri (who is stealth and has Tons of harmful ideas about masculinity internalized) and the faerghus four (who are also gender problems incarnate). and 3. ashedue, which is my favorite blue lions ship ever (GOD theyre so ADORABLEEE)

In Duscur, they say a body is a vessel. Gender is as relevant as the color of one's hair- easily changed, with dyes or a spoken word, and never a restriction. 

Dedue experimented with it, as a child, as all the young ones of his people did. He was neither male nor female, for a time, then a girl, then both, then a boy. He'd been a boy the day of the massacre, the day the prince had saved him- wearing the dark brown of boyhood, his hair cropped short. 

Dimitri had, of course, thought him a boy. So had everyone else in Faerghus. He could not fault them for that- it was true, after all, at the time. 

But he'd learned, quickly, that gender in Faerghus was different than he could have ever imagined it being in Duscur. It was a static, stifling thing that chafed at the joints. Got stuck at the cartilage between bones.

Once, when he was not quite fourteen, the scars of the massacre still healing on Dimitri's back, Dedue had seen a robe in the window of a shop. It was a deep purple, dotted with interwoven gold and white, and the patchwork reminded him of the patterns of his homeland. They were like mountains and valleys, running up and down in soothing patterns. 

He had gone into the shop to look at it, and Dimitri had followed on his heels. In those days Dimitri was afraid to leave his side, protective and needing to be protected all at once. When he'd seen Dedue run his fingers over the fabric, he'd gone white and dragged Dedue out of the shop. 

"Boys don't- you can't  _ wear  _ things like that," Dimitri had hissed when they were back in the carriage, a statement unusually hypocritical for a boy that Dedue had seen wearing dresses before- a scant few times, and always uncomfortable with them, and never now- but the fear had been plain in his voice. Dedue had wanted so badly to protect him, to wrap him in warmth until whatever caused him fear was dead and gone- but Dimitri hated to be coddled or protected, and Dedue would not force it, not now.

"But- I've seen men wear such garments," he had said, confused. "Monks, priests, bishops, mages, warlocks..." He had begun to count examples off on his fingers, but Dimitri was already shaking his head. 

"That's only- it doesn't count," he had insisted. "You're not a monk, Dedue, or a mage- you have zero aptitude in Faith OR Reason, it doesn't count-"

"But Felix," Dedue had protested. "Felix wears dresses on occasion, and he is a man. So have you, in fact-"

"Neither of us  _ wanted  _ to, Dedue," Dimitri had yelled, exploding in a mess of red faced anger, before he sat down in the carriage and very suddenly began to weep.

That was when he learned what gender meant in Faerghus, in a mess of Dimitri's tears and later, Sylvain and Ingrid's attempts at explaining when they returned to the castle and Dimitri retreated to his rooms. Dedue had stood in his chambers that night and touched the pads of his fingers to the curtains, staring into the mirrors at his body, scarred and no longer really his. Not even Duscur's anymore.

He thought, sometimes, that he had spent all his grief and it was gone and done. And then he remembered he was a person of Duscur in a foreign land, and his home was nothing but ash. Burnt to the ground in a screech of gore. Gone, all of it- his mother's hands, sewing him a skirt- his siblings' laughter- the sound of his language, his family's name rolling off his tongue. 

He wears trousers for the next five years, keeps his hair cropped somewhere between short enough as to be acceptable but still long enough that it can offer some kind of relief. He trims it, often, and burns the clippings as an offering to the gods whose names he still remembers. He only ever manages to indulge in brief moments of freedom at the monastery. 

Professor Byleth Eisner takes up a post as instructor in his first year there. Ostensibly she is the Black Eagles' instructor, but in reality she teaches all of them, often taking over for Hanneman and Manuela whenever possible. She calls them all her students, in equal measure.

"It seems… counterproductive, to divide into Houses based solely on one's land of residence," she says during one tea party with Dedue, with a placid, calm demeanor that entirely belies the fact that she's directly contradicting the archbishop and therefore by extension pronouncing heresy. He stares at her, shocked, and she smiles back. Takes another sip of tea.

A month into her tenure at Garreg Mach, she delivers boxes of clothes from door to door. For the sake of those students who are in need of extra clothes, she says. It is quite warm out in these months, after all, and the typical uniforms are suffocating in the heat.

There is house-themed loungewear for warm ups and sports activities, in blue and white with the Faerghan lion on the breast; summer outfits in white and tan, reminiscent of the riding outfit Ingrid brought with her to the monastery. There are servant's outfits that Byleth hurriedly informs everyone were jokes when Petra shows up to class wearing a pastel purple maid outfit. And then, of course, there's the eveningwear.

It must have been placed in his box of clothes by accident. But even so, it is surprisingly large, so large he thinks only Mercedes or Catherine could possibly wear it without it hanging off their frame. But on him- it fits perfectly.

He can't help himself. He lasts a week before he finds himself in his chambers, the curtains drawn over the windows and the doors shut tight, locked. Thick cotton spread over his knees as he holds the dress in front of him in the mirror. 

It's been so long since he wore robes. Hanneman has the goals for the year in a fairly linear style- Axes, Brawling, Heavy Armor- and he's been placed into a few classes at this point. They've all been different in various ways- being a Fighter gave him room to try the weight of both axes and gauntlets in his fists. He decided he preferred axes- the feeling of skin and muscle and bone crushed beneath his own hands is too much, made him sick the first time he felt a life fade underneath him. Being a Brigand was oddly freeing, too- the furs on his shoulders a reminder of home. Being a Fortresss Knight, now, makes him feel invincible- nothing and no one can move him. 

None of them, however, have had skirts. There are some men on the grounds of Garreg Mach who wear skirts. Felix does so against his will, and only when Lord Rodrigue makes an appearance at the monastery. There's Professor Hanneman, but his robe is more like a long coat than anything else, and he is a mage besides. Gilbert's garb looks more like a monk's- it is a traditional form of dress for old men in Faerghus, and he wears trousers underneath it in any case. Yuri Leclerc is the other example- the new transfer student from the Ashen Wolves beneath the monastery. And Yuri, with the light purple dust on his eyelids and his long hair and the earring in one ear, receives mockery from students for his choice of clothing. He lets it all slide off him, true, but Dedue winces to hear the razor sharp words anyways.

Dedue clutches the fabric of the dress's skirt in his hands and stares in the mirror. He twirls it, hesitant at first and then with a secret and honest joy. For the first time in five years, Dedue feels free.

He takes to wearing it when he can, on discreet occasions- late at night, on weekdays, or when everyone else is at dinner. On bad days, the feeling of black cotton against his knees keeps him sane, keeps him moving.

There is one day, a particularly awful day, that breaks him. It is Saint Macuil Day, a day which just so happens to coincide with a holy day of celebration in Duscur. They are all required to attend the religious celebration in the cathedral and listen to Lady Rhea give a sermon- a sermon where she talks about how different men and women are, and how good that is, how great a gift from Sothis.

Dedue sits in the pews and feels homesickness swallow him whole. Around him, faces shift- some looking uncomfortable, like Dimitri and Ashe- others absorbed in the sermon, like Ingrid or Lorenz or Ignatz. Sylvain and Hilda and Claude are sitting together, snickering under their breath. Felix seethes next to them. Across the aisle, Linhardt has dozed off. Petra and Raphael stare at the Archbishop in confusion. Edelgard and Hubert and Dorothea look straight ahead, blank faced, set jaw. Marianne is praying.

Back in Duscur, this day would be a day of celebration. People would be feasting, there would be dancing- a ball, like the White Heron Cup. Laughter, love, hope for the future. Now, Dedue sits in a cold drafty cathedral and listens to Lady Rhea's high voice lilt about a goddess he doesn't believe in.

He looks at the faces all around him, and they are all- unfamiliar. Alienating. None of them look like him. None of them look like home.

That night, he can't help himself. After everyone has fallen asleep, Dedue dons the dress and sneaks outside to the greenhouse. At the end of the holiday, Dedue's family used to give each other violets. They're dead now, of course- but the smell of it is familiar. Soothing.

He is in the middle of assembling a bouquet when Ashe walks in.

Dedue freezes in the middle of the greenhouse. His hair is a mess of white around his ears- he foregones hair ties this late at night. The skirt is loose around his knees, blowing in the wind that was let in by the opening of the doors. He is caught.

Ashe stares, for a moment. There's silence, echoing against glass panes. Dedue searches for words, finds none. His hands are covered in dirt and loose violet petals.

"Oh, um," Ashe says, and Dedue thinks he might explode out of the combination of sheer awkwardness and the anticipation of the words to come. "You... you're wearing a dress?"

Dedue nods. He still can't find words.

Ashe's brow furrows, and he tilts his head a little, squinting. "It looks, very, um, nice on you?" he says, questioning. "I hadn't realized, um, that you wore dresses."

Whatever Dedue was expecting, it was not this. Not Ashe, cheeks flushed light pink as he rubs at the back of his neck, sheepish. He thought there would be more well-intentioned but cutting comments made- Ashe is kind, Dedue knows this, he would not yell. He expected Ashe to say something about how wrong it is to see him- hulking and broad as he is- in a dress. He expected more reproach.

"You can't tell His Highness," Dedue says, finally. Something eases in his throat. "He… it would upset him, greatly, to see this. Faerghus is… he would worry."

Ashe nods and takes a few steps closer, towards the bouquets of violets Dedue has laid out in crinkled paper borrowed from the kitchen. "I wouldn't," he tells him, sincere and honest. "I would never betray your trust like that. If someone had betrayed  _ mine _ , back when I was still exploring myself-"

Dedue can't help the jolt that shudders through him. "You are… like me?" he asks, and there's desperation in his voice that he can't suppress. There are others in Garreg Mach whose journeys and struggles with the norms of gender in Fodlan are well-published gossip, and there are some who are even unapologetic about that. But in the Blue Lion house, there is a layer of shame over the whole of it all, a hurt that festers. 

Felix, who hides in his room when Rodrigue visits rather than wear a skirt and who punches anyone who even begins to imply that he's not a man. Ingrid, who refuses to wear makeup and talks at length about becoming a knight, who flinches when someone calls her a girl but insists that such a thing is normal. Dimitri, who, whenever confronted on the fact that the Faerghus heir was long known to be a girl, insists that was his sister who died in the Tragedy of Duscur. Annette, who goes by a different name in class because she's so afraid that Gilbert doesn't recognize her as a girl instead of the boy he left behind. The only exception is Mercedes, who freely admits who she is without apology, with a confidence that Dedue envies. 

Ashe laughs, self-conscious. "Not quite," he says. "I'm a man, for one, not a woman. I had the… opposite journey from you."

"I am not journeying towards anything." Dedue surprises himself with his own words, but he is- tired, and his head hurts, and he can't be bothered to try and couch himself in the way Fodlan discusses gender. "In Duscur, this would be… men would be permitted to wear dresses. And it was not… there was not just male and female, there, the way that everyone here seems to think. I am not a woman. Or a man. It is more complicated than that."

He is out of breath, gesturing to try to explain. Ashe sits down next to him on the edge of a flowerbed and swings his legs, looks up. 

"I'm listening!" he says, bright-eyed. "Tell me all about it."

And Dedue does. He speaks of what it means, in Duscur, to possess a body- it is a gift, a vessel, for your soul. They aren't always perfect, and frequently uncomfortable, but that is a part of being human. The challenge that the gods present them with is to make them one's own. Ashe nods along, eyes sparkling, as Dedue explains how male and female are ideas that were presented by the gods for humans to improve upon. To create more. To make their own. 

In return, Ashe tells Dedue about how he learned he was a boy at age fourteen, when Lord Lonato noticed that Ashe kept cutting his hair very short and always preferred pants to dresses or skirts, and broached the subject. How in his grief he gave Ashe all of Christophe's old garments, how Ashe was able to be a man only due to the kindness of the man who took him in. His voice hitches when he speaks of him- there is still the memory, there, of Lonato's body lying in the dirt, legs crushed underneath his horse, an arrow through his throat. 

They do not speak of that. Instead they turn the conversation to their childhoods- stories they read or were told as children, their siblings, the games they played. Dedue mentions the food he ate in his youth and Ashe lights up, asks for cooking lessons. From there they swap tips and recipes, Dedue pointing out herbs in the garden that are good for seasoning as Ashe talks about the best way to fell a deer. 

Hours later, when they have both exhausted themselves, Ashe leans his head against Dedue's shoulder. "What are the violets for?"

"The dead," Dedue answers. The barest edge of dawn is slipping over the horizon. A sliver of yellow lights Ashe's face, turning his freckles gold. "At home, we gave bouquets to each other on this day, as a celebration that we were still here. Now my family is gone, and I owe them a tribute."

Ashe falls silent for a few moments. Then he turns and takes the gardening shears and snips off something. Dedue doesn't see what it is until he's turning back around and Ashe is holding a small bouquet of dandelions and daisies in front of him.

"For you," Ashe says. His face is a furious shade of red, but he looks Dedue in the eyes all the same. "Because… you're alive. And so am I. And that's something to celebrate."

Dedue takes the flowers. They smell of dirt and growing things, and they are white- the color of bones and death. But they are also green, the color of rebirth- of new spring, and the things that will be born in coming months. 

"Yes," he murmurs, and smiles. "Yes, it is."


End file.
